


interlunium

by KaleidoKai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arya Stark - Freeform, Cousin Incest, F/M, Jon Snow - Freeform, King Jon Snow, Post - A Dance With Dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 23:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13134177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaleidoKai/pseuds/KaleidoKai
Summary: If the moon could do it, why couldn’t he? Piece by piece. Starting with her.





	interlunium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [museme87](https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/gifts).



> Hello everyone!
> 
> This is the first of my special present (1/?) to the lovely museme87, who’s inspired such a love for Jonrya in me. This is based on her two prompts:
> 
> “Looking back, it’s like those days never existed.” / “And you?” / “No. I didn’t exist either.”
> 
> “Do you ever think we should just stop this?”
> 
> And here is the result! I hope it’s half-coherent and you all enjoy it!

_Some days I can't get out of my head_  
_That's just the dark side of me_  
_Some nights, it's hard for me to fall asleep_  
_That's just the dark side of me_

 

Jon wondered, perhaps for the hundredth time, why he didn’t feel cold.

He sat on top of Winterfell’s highest tower with his legs swinging carelessly over the edge. A canvas of snow spread below him, his feet hanging over the white world in anticipation. He was clad in a thin tunic and breeches, and his eyes wandered over the snowflakes icing over his naked fingers like glittering crystals. A blink, and they vanished in the jangling wind.

The cold never really touched him anymore. It was as if he was an observer, encased in glass and watching the blizzards whip against his shield but never against his skin. The ice and the snow would slip around him, above him, through him, and he‘d be standing as still as mist, as hollow and insubstantial, letting the world pass him by.

It wasn’t that he felt warm, oh no. Bran had told him that dragon blood ran like wildfire through his veins, and he’d waited to feel it - to feel the flames lick his fingers and scorch his skin. He’d waited for that promise of warmth, that promise of passion, that promise of everything he’d been robbed of when he was stolen back from the clutches of Death. He’d waited to feel more than he did then, which was nothing at all.

Jon was still waiting.

_Perhaps I truly am the King of Winter, after all._

He sighed softly, watching his breath swirl and dance before disappearing into the inky night. A silver moon hung suspended above, drowning out all but the brightest stars. It lay trapped in a black velvet web, staring down at Jon as he stared back at it in wonder.

It changed in so many subtle ways, and in no way at all. Still the same moon that he’d look to as a boy, as a man, and now as a king. Yet different. Everyday, a little different. _Like me,_ Jon mused.

He thought he was the same. He looked the same. He sounded the same. But...he wasn’t, not really. Jon didn’t know what it was, but something was missing. Not the ice in his bones or the fire in his blood, but somewhere deep within. It was as if Melisandre has forgotten a piece behind in the Beyond when she’d brought him back, leaving a chasm that ripped apart more and more each day in his chest, like an itch he could never quite scratch. Sometimes he’d look for it in the mirror, half-expecting to see the abyss staring back at him. One day it might even swallow him whole.

He didn’t like the thought of that.

Another sigh erupted from his lips and he shifted to move away from the ledge. It was late and he had several meetings planned tomorrow morning. Sleep eluded him most days, but perhaps tonight the Gods might be merciful. Or maybe Sam would be, and give him more of that sleeping draught Jon knew he stashed under his bed. The latter was more likely.

Just as he was about to swing his legs over, the sound of footsteps caught his attention. Swiveling around, Jon saw Arya make her way delicately towards him, the trap door wide open behind her.

She was still wearing her training garb from earlier that day, but snuggled deeply in dark furs that wrapped around her in a vice grip. Her eyes were watching him quizzically, unblinking and intense, and he frowned at her subtle hesitance to approach him. Moonlight illuminated her slight frame, a soft halo shimmering off her dark hair like an ethereal crown. She reminded him of a song he’d once heard, of winter roses and black moonrises, a thing of shadow and secrets - and beauty. Certainly that, if anything else.

“Jon,” his cousin said quietly, breaking his reverie with a nod. He tilted his head in acknowledgement, observing her curiously as she gracefully dropped beside him on the ledge, tucking her legs beneath her. She fell deeper into her furs and Jon noticed her shiver slightly. A pang of envy shot through him. He stifled it.

“You’re up late, little wolf,” he joked with a smile, enjoying her scowl at his endearment. “Trouble sleeping?”

“I could ask the same of you,” she replied coolly with a raised eyebrow. She looked pointedly at his thin attire and tittered in disappointment. “And without your furs? You may care little for your health, Jon, but I do very much. Here,” she untangled herself from one of the furs hanging off her shoulders.

“Arya, I really don’t need-“

“Shut up,” she snapped as she threw it over him, fiddling with the edges to make sure his body was entirely covered. “Better?”

_No, not really._ “Yes, thank you.” He managed a weak grin, and she snorted in response.

Companionable silence washed over them like a cool tide, and he relished it. There were few he’d told of his safe space on this ledge, and even fewer whose company he’d actively wish for. He appreciated Arya’s lack of desire for words and empty conversation, and her contentment to sit with him and stare at the moon or count the stars or simply...be.

Safe. Yes, that was the word for what this place was to him. Safe from wandering eyes and curious faces. From the glares and the stares and the whispers of _demon_. High above the world where he could pretend he was soaring and he could feel the wind against his skin, weightless but for the heaviness of Robb’s crown that anchored him back to earth. He could never fly high enough to break free from it, never quite feel that wind that was just beyond his reach, brushing his fingertips. No, he was never enough for that.

“How are you today?” Arya suddenly asked, dragging him from his thoughts. He blinked absently for a moment before answering.

“Fine,” he lied with a wave of his hand. “Just...thinking about how much grain to ask the Glovers for tomorrow. The usual.” His voice was clipped and betrayed nothing. From the corner of his eye, he saw Arya’s stare harden and her mouth press into a displeased line. She waited for more, but he said nothing.

What would he say? That he’d spent the last three hours sitting outside in the depth of winter, hoping for a chill? That he’d spent the hours before that lying on his bed staring at his ceiling with little but a whisper of a thought in his head? That the chasm in his chest, that pitiless and soulless and consuming hole that was part of him now, had grown that much bigger?

No, he couldn’t. Not to Arya. Not to his little sister, who never looked at him with pity or fear, like he was an undead freak or some sort of immortal god. Who he saw nothing but love and pride and hope swirling in the grey orbs of her eyes. He couldn’t risk corrupting that.

“And you?” he said instead, violently shaking the dark thoughts from his head. “Word has it you bested Tormund today whilst training. Please tell me it’s true, I’ve already bragged about it to the men.” Jon chuckled.

A smile cracked Arya’s lips, pride glimmering in her eyes. “He said Needle looked like a child’s plaything. He had a very different opinion once they were introduced properly.”

Jon threw his head back in laughter, and soon enough, Arya joined in, the two of them howling under the moon.

A heartbeat later, her jaw snapped shut, the laughter dying instantly on her lips. She gave him a sombre look.

His smile fading, Jon reached out from under the furs to grasp the curled hand on her lap in concern. “Arya? Is everything alright?”

Grey met grey as Arya searched his face for a moment, digging for an answer that she couldn’t find, judging from the deep sigh escaping her lips. She untangled their fingers and crossed her arms over her chest, gazing at the heavens.

Taking a breath, she looked back at him. “Do you ever think we should just stop this?”

Jon’s eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Stop...what, exactly?”

“This!” Arya exclaimed, waving her hands ambiguously around them. “Don’t you think it has to change?”

Jon blinked slowly at her, frowning. “I’m not even sure what _this_ is. What are you on about?”

Arya huffed and gave him an exasperated look, looking so much like her mother he involuntarily shrank in fear for a moment.

“Do not play stupid with me, Jon Snow,” Arya said, evenly. “You hardly sleep or eat, I never see you train anymore, and when you’re not lying to me, you’re either up here or locked in a room somewhere.” She threw her hands in the air as her voice began to crack. “And I just go along with it because I’m afraid I’ll lose you more than I already have if I push you too much. I’m tired of pretending, Jon.” To his horror, her eyes shined with unshed tears. “So I’ll ask again. Can we stop this...this pretense that everything is alright? Please?”

Jon gaped at her, his mouth hanging open stupidly. When he didn’t respond immediately, Arya turned away in disappointment and furiously wiped her cheeks, a small sniffle escaping into the crisp night air.

The sound spurred Jon into action, the sight sending shots of pain through his chest. He reached out again and firmly grabbed her gloved fist, unrelenting when she tried pulling it away. His other hand grasped her chin and turned it towards him, as reluctant as she was to comply.

He wanted to say that he was still here, that she hadn’t lost him yet. He wanted to say that she could never push him away, that nothing she could say or do could ever have him wanting anything but her close to him. That he was afraid of the opposite, that she’d realize how little he had to offer her and turn away in disgust.

Instead what came out was a whispered, “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I know what you ask, and I want to give it to you.”

Hope glimmered in twin pools of grey, sparkling like jewels in candlelight.

“...but I can’t. I...I’m not...I don’t know what to even...you wouldn’t understand.”

Jon realized immediately that he chose his words incredibly poorly.

Arya’s eyes darkened infinitesimally, the winter skies of her eyes raging like thunderstorms. She tore herself away from him, ignoring his protests, and dragged herself up.

“Arya, wait-“ he tried feebly, standing up to implore her to stay. “Arya!”

She slapped his hand away and spun on her heel to face him. Anger whitened her face until it glowed as brightly as the watchful moon above.

“ _I_ wouldn’t understand? What do you know of me? What I’ve been through?” she hissed at him angrily. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine, and he was frozen to the spot, her fury piercing his skin like burning icicles. Perhaps he wasn’t immune to the cold after all.

By the time the ice around his heart melted and his wounds stopped bleeding, she was gone.

And the abyss grew just a little bit wider.

 

oOo

 

_If you ever ever call my name, name_   
_You will find out that we're both the same  
When the lights go out, I need to know_

 

It was several days later, after numerous moments of trying to speak to her, that Jon finally found Arya alone.

He’d crawled through the trap door to the roof, readying himself for another few hours alone at the mercy of his thoughts when he caught sight of her. She was sitting in his usual place, bundled in furs, staring at wonder at the moon. He almost didn’t want to disturb her, this porcelain doll that blended into the night as seamlessly as the stars above. A winter queen on her throne, surrounded by ice and fury with her frozen world at her feet.

But Arya wasn’t porcelain. Nowhere near as fragile, as he was finally beginning to realize.

He stepped carefully towards her, not wanting to disturb this pristine image. If she heard him, she made no move to show it.

Lowering himself down beside her, Jon studied her closely. Arya’s head was still tilted back, stubbornly refusing to look his way. Her dark hair fell in wild waves down either side of her face, obscuring her expression, though glimpses could be seen through gaps. Her skin looked so pale, Jon could have sworn she was carved from moonlight itself.

He watched her for a few moments more, before following her gaze upwards.

The moon was smaller than it had been last time he was up here, the darkness of the sky slithering around it like smoky snakes, consuming it little by little. Soon, there would be nothing at all, until it came back the next night, piece by piece. Slowly but surely coming together until it was whole, like it hadn’t been taken by the darkness. Like it had simply been biding its time, building itself up, until it shone brighter and more beautifully than it ever had before.

Jon clenched and unclenched his hand, his stomach stirring uncomfortably. He stifled the urge to reach up and press a fist against his chest to feel the flesh there. To assure himself that the abyss didn’t exist, that he was here, that he was solid. That he was real and it was not.

But it felt real enough. His fingers shook slightly as his mind went blank and all he could see was darkness, a gaping hole threatening to swallow him whole.

_No_ , he thought firmly. _It will not consume me._

If the moon could do it, why couldn’t he? Piece by piece. Starting with her.

“Arya.”

His voice must have betrayed something, since she whipped around so fast he was worried her neck might snap. Jon was suddenly faced with twin pools of burning grey, and he let himself fall into its familiarity. These were eyes he’d known for years, eyes he’d seen open for the first time. Eyes that would not - could not - ever judge him. He’d been a fool to hide from her, of all people. This, this was his safe place. She was his safe place.

“I’m not fine,” he finally said after forever, proud his voice didn’t waver.

“I know,” Arya replied, reaching a hand out. Without hesitating, he entwined his fingers with hers, grateful for something solid to hold onto.

She squeezed his hand once, encouraging him to say more, but when he didn’t immediately respond, she turned away to look over Winterfell. Waiting, he realized, for him to choose when to speak. At his own time. When he wanted. A sudden rush of warmth overwhelmed him.

He didn’t know where to begin, so he started off with the question that he should have asked a long time ago, if he hadn’t been afraid of the answer. “Do you think I’ve changed?”

His heart froze in his chest as she turned around slowly, her hand still wound tightly around his. Her expression was blank, though he could see the myriad of emotions flashing in her eyes.

“We’re all different, Jon,” she said cryptically, avoiding his gaze.

“That’s not what I meant-”

“I know what you meant,” she insisted, looking up at him, the chips of ice spinning brightly with concern. “And the answer is: yes. You are different. But so am I. And Bran, and Sansa, and Rickon. We’re nothing like we once were, but at the same time,” she frowned in confusion, “we’re more than we ever could have been. Does that make sense?”

Jon stared at her, baffled. “No, not really.”

Arya huffed in frustration, and closed her eyes briefly. Serenity washed over her face like seawater and Jon watched transfixed as she turned and gazed at him with eyes older than any he’d seen before. The thunderstorms of her eyes no longer raged, but floated like lilies on a pond in spring. Looking into them felt like flying through an endless sky, unbounded and weightless. Unconsciously, he leaned in closer.

“Training with the Faceless Men, it felt...well, it felt like I was living a thousand lives. I was everyone but me,” she began, uncertain. Jon listened patiently. He’d rarely heard her speak of her time in Braavos, and for the longest time he’d wondered if she didn’t trust him enough to tell him, or if he’d simply forgotten how to listen.

He was listening now, however. “I thought I lost myself but really, maybe...I don’t know, I feel more like Arya Stark now than I ever did before. This is who I am,” she gestured vaguely to herself. “I’m not defined by what’s happened, but it has helped shape me to be what I am now. The Faceless Men never stole Arya Stark from me. They showed me who she really was, what she was really made of. And I’d have never found that - found _me_ \- if I hadn’t lived through what I have.”

She paused, looking to see Jon’s reaction. Her words rang through him like bells, and he tried grasping onto every sound, every syllable, crafting it into an image he could understand. In his mind, he saw Arya as he’d once known her: a child of wildfire and ferocity, untamable with her heart on her sleeve and a sword proudly in hand. The picture inspired a bubble of love in his chest, it was almost painful. But it disappeared, and in its place, was Arya as she was now: a she-wolf that still burned brightly, but like the moon where she once was the sun. A figure shrouded in shadow, but who wore the darkness as a crown, hiding the daggers he knew she always carried. Fierce, and no less tamable, with a heart he could only catch glimpses of in the best of moments.

It was Arya in her entirety. And he found he loved her no less for it.

She was watching him with trepidation, and Jon realized with a jolt that she was holding her breath for what he said next. He raised her hand and gently kissed her palm in encouragement, earning a winning smile that glowed in the night.

“I think I understand,” he muttered, more to himself. “But in some ways, I think I don’t.” Her smile began to fade, so he took a deep breath and pressed her hand against his chest. “Tell me what you feel.”

“Jon, I don’t-“

“Tell me, Arya.”

She scrunched her nose in confusion, blinking a few times before answering, “I feel your heart. It’s beating, like it should.”

He pressed her. “And?”

Frowning, she said, “It’s...warm? Am I supposed to be looking for something in particular?”

A puff of breath escaped his lips as he sighed. “I don’t know.”

He let go of her hand and wrapped his arms around himself. Not to stave off the cold, but there was something comforting about having this armor. He felt rather than saw Arya scoot closer, pressing her shoulder against his. They fell into silence, listening to the wolves howling somewhere nearby. A lonely sound, he thought.

“Do you remember that time in the crypts, when I was covered in flour pretending to be a ghost?” Jon said suddenly, his voice growing animated. If Arya was surprised by this sudden change in conversation, she did well to suppress it.

“Of course. I punched you for making Bran cry,” she laughed.

Jon cracked a smile, “You had a solid hit for the size you were, I’d tell you that. I hid it from Robb but it hurt like hell.”

“Oh please, like Robb didn’t see the tears in your eyes. He just pretended not to see them so you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

They chuckled quietly at the memory, letting the image of a boastful boy with red hair and promise in his eyes hang around them like radiant sunlight, warm against their skin.

Jon was the first to stop laughing, turning away to look back at the landscape. It didn’t hurt as much as it once did to think of Robb, but it was a long way away from being pleasant just yet.

“I think about it a lot, you know. Those times when nothing really mattered. Where the worst I feared was someone calling me a bastard,” he continued. Arya rested her head against his shoulder, and he took comfort in the weight. “Looking back, it’s like those days never existed.”

“And you?” Arya asked softly, a whisper in his ear.

“No, I didn’t exist either. At least, not me as I am now. Not the King you see. I don’t think that boy would recognize me if he ever had to face me,” he said evenly. “I feel...” He didn’t know how to form the words, so he let his voice trail off.

He turned when Arya lifted her head, catching a strange expression on her face. “But I don’t see a King,” she confessed. “I see Jon Snow. Past and present. You’re still you as I am me, but we’re more than what we once were. Don’t you see?”

She reached out and grasped his face firmly with both hands, staring into his eyes with fierce intensity. “You look into the mirror and you want to see the Jon Snow that you used to be. But he’s not there, Jon, at least not in the way you want him to be. And that’s not something to mourn. He is there, but he’s grown into more. _You_ are _more_. And you’ll be more tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that. You are everything you were, and more.”

Jon’s breaths had stopped and he looked at the child, the woman, at Arya Stark. He looked at her wild hair that was longer and curlier than it had been once, but still the deep shade of earthy brown like his own. He looked at the creamy skin that glowed untouched under the moon, but a little closer revealed a lattice of different marks and scars she wore proudly without shame.

He looked at the twin pools of grey, so like his own, that were bright with anticipation and excitement, like the sun and the moon and all the stars in between. That had seen horrors, and happiness, that held love and fear and anger and sorrow. And an abyss, like his own, under the surface. Endless and soulless but not consuming. It simply existed, there beneath everything that made her Arya. She’d learnt to control it, instead of letting it control her.

She was different, but still the same. Like he was.

He leaned in and pressed his forehead against hers, relishing in the warmth that spread from her touch, through his chest, and to the very tips of his fingers.

Piece by piece. Little by little. Starting with her.

The chasm began to shrink.

 

_Are you afraid of the dark?  
I'm not afraid of the dark_

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I’d love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> And a sneaky little message regarding my other fic ‘an inconvenience’ - I haven’t abandoned it. I’ve just had a lot of work on lately but I’m currently writing the latest chapter and this gift took priority, but I promise I’ll update soon!


End file.
